


Back Up

by kriadydragon



Category: White Collar
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Gen Fic, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-24
Updated: 2011-07-24
Packaged: 2017-10-21 17:05:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/227564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kriadydragon/pseuds/kriadydragon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Neal, what the hell are you wearing?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Back Up

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Poorfenny at Collarcorner.

“Neal, what the _hell_ are you wearing?”

Neal seemed to mostly ignore the question in favor of getting to his desk as quickly as his body, apparently having gone arthritic, would let him. He brushed past Peter, brushed through the doors and shuffled with stiff, stubborn resolve to his seat. And the office gaped at him. Of course they would gape; the slick Neal Caffrey looking so very down to earth in the attire of the every day man during the weekend – dark track pants, a ratty blue T-shirt covered in paint stains and tennis shoes.

Honest to goodness, well-worn and about-to-fall-apart tennis shoes.

People stared, murmured, boggled but Neal ignored them, looking like a man daring anyone to say something, to crack a joke or so much as smile, because the consequences weren't going to be pretty. If Peter hadn't been suddenly choked by panic he would have asked who this Neal was and where he'd put the real Neal.

“Neal?” he pressed, using the long but level tone that allowed no room for any bull, the tone that always kept Neal honest or at least near to honest.

“No, Peter, I'm not up to anything,” Neal said. He had his eyes closed in an expression of only partial relief and barely that. When he opened them, he looked drained. “I stiffened up.”

Peter could feel the blood drain from his face as though someone had pulled a plug in his veins. “How bad?”

“Bad enough I needed to call Mozzie to help me get dressed.”

“And, what, a T-shirt was easier than a button shirt?”

Neal shrugged, which was a mistake, making him suck in a pained breath. “Yeah, actually. I can only hold my arms at the side or in front at a forty degree angle. Don't even ask about the pants.”

“Great,” Peter mumbled, pinching the bridge of his nose. “That's just... great.”

The case was jinxed. It had to be. First the police crashing last night's operation, forcing Neal to run and keep his cover, then some overzealous rookie's attempt to tackle Neal sending Neal tumbling head over heels down the stairs, then the target making a request for anothermeet at a second location and a time that would be devoid of witnesses – it was like a FUBAR avalanche, growing as it continued to fall.

“Sorry, Peter,” Neal said sincerely.

Peter waved it off. “Not your fault.” Wrenched muscles were a small price to pay, better than broken bones and ten times better than a broken neck.

But Antoine Alexis, aka The Pirate, aka the black market prince, was paranoid to make Mozzie seem reasonable. According to Neal, while Neal ran one way during the impromptu raid, Antoine ran the other, so hadn't seen Neal take a header down the stairs. Even if pumped full of the best painkillers money could buy (and no way was Peter planning to go that far) Neal would still be devoid of his usual swagger, and it would be enough for Alexis to cry foul and run.

But only after he put a couple of bullets into Neal. Better to cut the other guy's throat before he cut yours was Antoine's motto, literally. He wasn't called The Pirate because the Bureau had run out of clever nicknames.

“Damn it!” Peter hissed, one hand scraping through his hair, the other planted on his hip. “What the hell do we do, now? We can't send someone in your place--”

But this made Neal roll his eyes. “Peter, Peter, Peter. Dare I say it?”

“Say what?” Peter snapped.

“Ye of little faith.”

Despite what sounded like Neal's normal display of smarmy confidence, Peter glared at him. “Neal, I don't have time--”

“Peter,” Neal cut in calmly. “Relax, deep breaths. You forget, this is me, and since when do I walk into any situation without a back up plan?”

“I could name a couple.”

Neal gave him a sympathetic look. “You chased me for how many years? And still don't know a thing about me. Yes, sometimes even a back up plan is rendered useless by unforeseen circumstances but not this time. I choose my aliases well, believe me. Antoine may have a cautious streak that could circle the globe twice but Mark Samson...” Neal attempted to rest his splayed hand on his chest, but gave up halfway there with a pained grunt. “Mark Samson will match it frayed nerve for frayed nerve. If Antoine did his homework, he'll know this. Last night, things went to hell and that would've put both men on edge.”

“Which means Antoine's going to send someone in his place. Damn it all!” Peter fumed, longing for a wall to punch.

“True,” Neal said, obnoxiously unruffled. “But he'll also be nearby, someplace close enough to watch the transaction for himself, via camera or in person. We can use this to our advantage, Peter. It'll be tricky, yes, but it'll work.”

“You sure?” Peter hedged.

“I can tell you it's worked eight times out of ten, and that the two times it didn't work everyone walked... well, okay, ran... away relatively unscathed. I can't tell you why.”

“Of course. You're not inspiring any confidence with this.”

“Take it or leave it, Peter. We can still get Antoine but we have to keep going. We postpone and he's gone and those museum pieces with him.”

Neal was right. The Pirate was at the top of White Collar's most wanted list and had been for over a decade. But it was only thanks to Neal and one of his many aliases that they were able to get this close. But, still...

“It'll be one of my people I'll be sending in. If anything happens to them--”

“I know,” Neal said soberly. “Believe me, Peter, I know. But if you want to get this guy, you really need to trust me on this. I promise I won't let you down.”

And when Neal used _that_ tone, the one that really was a promise, verging on a plea, stripped clean of pomp and ego, it was hard not to believe him. It also helped that Neal was about as fond of putting others in a position of danger as Peter.

Peter blew out a breath. “Okay.”

“Thank you. First thing's first, though.” Neal cleared his throat then held up his arm.

Peter's lips twitched toward a grin. He grabbed Neal by the biceps and hauled him to his feet.

\----------------------

Wrenched muscles were torture enough when it was just one area of the body suffering. Peter couldn't even begin to fathom what it must be like for the vast majority of the body to be pummeled and pulled. There was a good possibility that even shuffling and his body hunched as though his spine were melting it was a miracle Neal was even moving. His pain was obvious to the point that he didn't even try to hide it, his face taut and hallow with it, his eyes shadowed with what had to have been a poor night's sleep, and even the smallest movement gave him a reason to wince. Obviously the two Motrin Neal had dry swallowed weren't helping, and there was a tense moment in the van on the way to the meet in which Peter was sure Neal was going to be carsick.

But they made it without any vomit to show for it, and Neal a lot more alert once Diana, Jones and three other agents exited the van and accompanying cars full of even more agents. Jones was to be Mark's “middleman.” Everyone else was backup. The location was the park, in a little wooded area off the path, nice, quiet, private and a hot-bed for anything and everything to go wrong.

And it did.

There was talking – the usual tight words and veiled threats meant to move things along while letting each party know where they stood. Neal, trying to massage some of the aches out of his neck, fed the ruse with the occasional line and advice. So far, so good.

Then - “Search them! Now!”

Peter and Neal stiffened, exchanging panicked looks. That had been Antoine's voice. Antoine was there.

Peter, hand going for his gun, stood so fast from his chair he knocked it over with a clatter. “They'll find the comms. Damn it, they've been compromised. All agents--”

But the sight of Neal's empty chair and the open van door stopped him.

“Damn it, Neal!” Peter growled. He grabbed the headphones to ascertain his team's current condition. The wires had been found, Antoine wasn't happy.

“Kill them!”

“Antoine!” Neal's voice. “Really Antoine? I never took you for a hypocrite. Since you made my people show you mine I think it's only fair you show me yours. Come on, Antoine. Be fair. I'm still pissed at you for the cops showing up. I can barely walk because of them.”

And just like that, the chaos was over as quickly as it begun. Antoine laughed. It wasn't a pleasant laugh, but neither was it followed by orders to shoot. It didn't help bring Peter any peace of mind. The tension was still thick, the words even tighter and the threats out of the veil and on the table...

But, then, the magic words.

“Pleasure doing business with you, Antoine.”

Peter gave the order to move in. Antoine and his four cronies were surrounded, out-gunned and out-manned. The Pirate had no choice but to surrender.

Neal, hunched as though trying to curl into a ball of human misery, was all smiles. Weak, pained smiles, but still smiles.

While Peter's team herded a cuffed Antoine and his gang to the cars, Peter made sure Neal didn't drop on the way back to the van.

“Told you,” Neal said.

Peter chuckled. “Yes, Neal, you do wonders even when half-crippled by pulled muscles and dressed in clothes you otherwise wouldn't be caught dead in.”

“You underestimate me, Peter. I paint in these clothes. I've been caught alive and well in them more times than I can count.” He suddenly frowned. “Think someone took a picture?”

“Probably. But you've earned the right not to have them circulated.”

“And the right not to go back into the office like this?”

“I'll drive you home. But I draw the line at changing your clothes.”

Neal chuckled. “Fair enough.”

The End


End file.
